Buried among withered trees and tufts of grass quivering on the edge of decay, in a landscape so barren, it appeared to be rooted in bone, there was a barracks. Of sorts. It had once been a castle, and although the mortar was rotting in parts and any engravings on the stone had long been worn away, it still held a certain ailing grandeur. That ailing grandeur was completely off set by the disheveled piles of wood that had been added onto it in the last few months--piles of wood that passed for adjoining halls or, more accurately, barracks. A greasy plume of smoke shuddered from a particularly run down portion of the add-ons. This was the mess hall. There were no windows, only a curtain that served as an excuse for a door and a large chink in the roof that served as a chimney.

The regiment from the far north was entering the mess hall for the first time.

Not so much among them as straggling in the back, was a thin young man, with skin greyed by deep pallor and red-brown hair that was badly frayed and tossled. What was most notable about him, though, was the swatch of stained white cloth bound tightly over his eyes.

His name was Scott.

He had a frame that would have supported strength and a firm face that might have housed a leader, but he had never been one to put himself forward and his blindness had made him shy. He kept to the shadows to the best of his abilities, one hand trailing in front of him, his body tense and alert.

His palm brushed lightly against someone's back, who grunted in some sort of indigation. "Excuse me?" he said quietly, withdrawing his hand slightly, "This is where I'm supposed to be, right? To eat?" He knew the man (the grunt had been male) was probably looking him over, taking a certain pity (it was always pity, of course). "Yeah. Just keep walking straight." Scott nodded his thanks and moved when he heard others move, placing his steps with caution, as his still adolescent muscles tended to do awkward things sometimes. He had always been a bit clumsy.

The line moved fairly quickly and in a matter of moments he was before the wafting heat of what had to be a cauldron. He heard something splatter and a large, calloused hand firmly took his wrist and shoved a dry-grimed bowl against his palm. Scott grabbed it quickly, pulled away from the server, and retreated to the wall.

The hall was filled with the whispers, guffaws, and chatters of thousands. Scott was utterly alone, but he'd expected that. Sighing, he leaned back against the shadowed wall, gripping the bowl close to him.

Something caught his attention. Among the greyed-out red that was his "vision," there was a darker movement and a sense of eyes. Someone was looking at him in a decidedly odd manner and somehow he could see it. The look was green, almost a yellow-green, and female--there was something about the darkness around it that was female. Scott tilted his head to return the stare, intent despite his unease. It was the most he'd been able to see in years and he wasn't about to be frightened off.

The green suddenly seemed to grin, and her eyes were not on him, but deflected. There was a sense of yellow, but more washed out then the green, and not smiling. Then, with smooth grace, the green was there and firm upon him again. There was a sense of movement--she was walking directly toward him. Scott clutched the bowl tightly, muscles rigid with apprehension. He couldn't be sure of her intentions . . . let alone if she was even real.

As the green drew closer, he pressed unconsciously back into the wall, not that it would do any good. The green stopped a few feet in front of him, and he felt the wind of her arms as they folded firmly across her chest. She took an audible breath before "You're drawing stares, standing over here all by yourself. You got a disease or something?"

"I'm blind," he responded tersely, annoyed that she was ignoring the obvious, and edged to one side. "I'm not about to go bumbling through the tables."

"You're a mutant, too, if that thing on your shoulder means anything," The green's arms whipped wind again and Scott was aware that she had pressed her hands on either side of his head. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. My name's Jean. And you're . . . "

"Scott." His thoughts had wandered to the the branded mark on his bare shoulder at her "mutant" observation. No one had bothered to mention that in a long time, and it un-nerved him. A lot of things about this girl un- nerved him.

The green flashed. "Scott, not much of a name. I mean, it's just one syllable. Scott."

Scott smiled slightly, the brand slipping out of his mind as quickly as it had entered. There was an attractiveness to this Jean that he was hardly immune to, even if she was just a vague splash of color in his mind. "And I suppose Jean is better?"

Jean laughed. It was a deep laugh, rich and almost exotic, "Not in the slightest." The greeness that was her eyes intensified and Scott found himself slowly getting lost in it . . .

In the far corner of his mind, he heard an enraged bellow. His thoughts abruptly flared into focus as Jean collapsed to the floor, felled by a strong blow that echoed against a firmness, like a back. There was a hard wind and a gasp from Jean and the greeness flickered at him again, although disfocused. Behind the green was a grey, a wide blue grey that was female as well, but different. Her voice was lower and harsher and was discordant with the thoughtfulness in that grey.

"Are you crazy? You wanna alienate him a little more, do you?" There was a weight to the voice and the grey that slipped itself over the green and was sympathetic rather than seductive. "She doesn't mean it--not really. Jean hasn't learned basic sense yet." Scott supposed he looked as confused as he felt, but the grey growled something inaudible at Jean and seemed to now ignore him to all extents and purposes. Jean dropped back to the floor with a low thump. Another, more muffled thump, as the grey completely overpowered the green, knocked her over. Scott was unable to act, even had he been able to tell what was going on. The grey's contralto was quivering with rage, "Leave it alone for once. He might need us."

The grey flashed strongly in his mind one last time, then there were retreating footsteps as she stalked off back toward wherever she had come from. Scott gaped, his brain wierdly lax and foggy and the almost incomprehensible colors that had no place in a brain long infused with black and red weren't helping either. Jean was grunting and shifting below him and Scott finally managed to look concerned, although he wasn't sure he was supposed to.

Jean snorted, her green not quite focused on him. "That's Rogue. Odd duck, huh? But . . . um, I really didn't mean anything by it."

"What?" Scott muttered, rubbing his straggled bangs.

"Oh, eh . . . you're a mutant reject, too, of course." It was more of a question than a statement and Scott nodded slowly. "Yeah, well, Emperor Kelly, he likes their mutants a little predictable, but . . . " She lowered her voice, "I can make people do stuff. Anything I want."

Scott instinctively tried to back away again, but he was already against the wall. Jean laughed, "Oh, come on, I wouldn't have made you do anything bad. Maybe dance a little . . . no, no, I'm kidding! Rogue was just afraid that's what I was gonna do. I wouldn't have made you do anything--I just wanted to see if you could resist me. Mutants are a funny bunch, especially those no one wants to hire and . . . well, anyway, sorry."

"It's all right," Scott said, without much conviction. Jean spoke a little too fast for him and she had just put him in a trance without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Would you come sit with us?" she added quickly, suddenly upright and Scott had a sudden sense of her jutting out. The green was now almost pleading, almost childlike. Scott found his own eyes widening, behind the cloth and the tightly shut eyelids, and although the lonely emotions flicking through his blood seemed to be his own, he was quietly afraid he was being manipulated again.

But Jean let her breath rush out in frustration before he could say anything, "I guess you don't. I really am sorry, really." She took a single step back slowly as if she was about to leave, but she lingered right there, uncertain, waiting for him to respond.

An internal voice decided this was the time to inform Scott that Jean was the sort Scott ought to stay away from. If she was a normal human, there would have been no particular trouble, but mutant cast offs hanging together in an exclusive clump would draw suspicion from the higher-ups, which was a thing to avoid. This was even forgetting the fact that Jean was not even a normal mutant (not that Scott was, but anyway) and could do things to people on a whim and seemed to enjoy it. Scott didn't like being messed with and he didn't trust Jean at all. Then again, the green that was her was smiling a little at the moment and the rich, live color was intoxicating, and . . . yes, attractive again. It was even almost like seeing, which he missed terribly.

He was overcome. But his tone was cynical, as he explained that he didn't have much choice--a lone mutant reject was maybe in as much danger as a suspicious coven, if not more, and his blindness didn't help and she'd already approached him and he would be connected anyway and considered a spy or something and on and on.

Jean did not seem to be impatient or insulted by his rambling speech and by the end of it, had firmly taken his hand. Scott stared stupidly darkly down at it for a moment before Jean pulled him around to face the chatter of the mess hall. The black redness meant nothing to him, of course, but in the corner of his eye, there was a streak of yellow and grey . . . and he supposed those were the other mutants. The noise slackened off and the air practically hummed with anticipation.

"Listen, unenlightened masses! All hail the new cast-off, the new bit of flotsam, the next particle of dust stuck in your boot soles, Scott!" A glob of grub splattered on Scott's left cheek as the unenlightened masses expressed their opinion. Jean chuckled as he ruefully wiped his off, his shoulders sagging, "I think you'll fit right in. Come on, you're one of us now." Gee whilikers, he was thrilled. She gripped Scott's wrist harder and led him toward her rather-too-private bench with the streaks of color. Just short of it, she let go of his wrist and pressed down on his shoulder, signalling him to wait. Well, fine.

There were some exchanged whispers and the grey suddenly focused hard on him.

"What's he doing here, Jean? You didn't . . ."

"Rogue, he wanted to come. I can't refuse him if he actually wants to associate with us, can I? And after all, you said . . ."

Rogue growled, and her fists slammed the table. "Jean, you're a manipulative witch . . ." She let the rage out in a sigh, "But if he's really come of his own accord, I guess it's all right." Scott heard her shift and rise, the grey growing stronger and kinder. "I guess you can sit down, then."

Jean jerked him down to the seat and he banged his knee before managing to sling his legs over the bench. He hadn't quite gotten situated when Jean suddenly slapped her forehead loudly and muttered a curse. Scott realized that the lurid yellow that had flamed next to Jean was no longer there.

"Kurt." Jean spat the word, her green narrowing.

"Kurt's here."

The green glanced in a neutral direction and snarled, "Whatever you're doing, cut it out and get over here."

The space next to Scott exploded with sound, nearly knocking him over. Smoke putrid enough to choke billowed against his face and, despite his best efforts to hold his breath, set him into a racked coughing fit. It was a long moment before he could breath well enough again to turn his head toward the explosion. There was the yellow. There was Kurt. He was very small, barely took up any room on the bench. He made a darker impression against Scott's mind than the other two. Scott heard him slip behind him as the yellow vanished, which bothered him more than he would like to admit. He spun around on the bench, tense with distrust. The yellow bored into him--there was a sense of fangs. Scott swallowed hard, but did not turn away. Kurt's voice was smooth and utterly indifferent. "He'll do."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "I'll do?" He jerked his head toward Jean again, "Were you all disturbed as children?"

Jean snapped at the yellow, ignoring Scott's comment. "Kurt! We don't need you to initiate him. What are you trying to do, drive the kid off?"

There was a shrug in Kurt's inflection. "I didn't, did I?" Casually, he leaned against the table, making it creak. Scott edged closer to Jean, who was practically seething with rage.

Scott wasn't sure if the tension in the air between Jean and Kurt was genuine and didn't particularly care. Let them have their spat--as long as it didn't involve his poor un-talented body being tested by any more wild forces. However, the tension dissapated within seconds as both green and yellow appeared to simply lose interest. Rogue's grey was upon him and the look was wry. Scott found himself gravitating to her relative . . . normality.

Rogue's grey eyes had to be the smouldering kind, but a little of the spark drained out of them as she leaned forward. "Moody. Bitter. Short attention span," she said in an amused undertone, "Rather disparate paths they've taken, nonetheless. Jean was, at one point, a noble. Kurt is my . . . well, sibling. He's not quite human," she hissed so quietly he could barely hear her, "Not real happy about losing the mutant position to . . ." She broke off in a chuckle, and he heard her ease back on the bench before raising her voice. "So, Scott . . . what sort of mutant are you?"

"I see things," he lied flatly, hoping Jean wasn't able to read his mind as well. "Images, really. Kinda nonsensical at that. Oh, they all make sense after the traumatic event of doom, but it's not much use then."

"Rogue's an energy vampire," Jean cut in, with a none-too-friendly sneer, "I wouldn't get too close, if I were you."

Rogue's grey smiled and there was an attractiveness about her, too. "No emperor with any sense would take me, sadly," she said, "They feel rather . . . threatened by a person with my prescense."

"What they're afraid of," Jean amended, "is that they'll phrase a request wrong and she'll eat their life force and rip their heads off."

"Nonetheless," Rogue continued, as if Jean hadn't said a thing, "I, and you, at least, are proper mutants. Jean is some kind of crazed hypnotist telekinetic whatnot and Kurt . . . makes messes."

"It's called a teleport."

"Grand, Kurt, just grand. I would have hated to have forgotten."

A clanging sound echoed through the hall and Scott jumped to his feet, only barely catching a backward stumble with his heels. "What's that?" He hated loud noises and was near panic, his head jerking back and forth.

Jean sighed in mock resignation and grabbed the crook of his elbow, "You haven't been here long, have you? Follow us."

Scott paced Jean cautiously out of the mess hall and down a long corridor, jostled by a constant flow of limbs and bodies. Finally, after a blind, bone jarring traverse through that endless hall, Scott and his companions broke out into the light, which flared red behind his eyelids. Jean described in a hurried whisper a sod field, set up with various rough mannikins on poles. Scott listened dumbly for a moment, slightly overwhelmed, before the crowd shuffled him violently away from Jean and into yet another series of lines. Trapped between close, sweaty forms, rushing in ranks and files, he was suddenly thrown a long, sharpened stick which he barely caught. The force unbalanced him and he nearly toppled, despite the mass at his back, but Rogue's grey abruptly reached from an adjoining line and caught him from behind, muttering, "Practice. You have to learn how to use these things before going out to kill people with them. Ah, reject mutants. No social or legal status to speak of. We're entry level, my boy!"

They separated then, their respective lines shifting further. Scott found his palms slick on the wood he clutched nervously. He had never been much of a fighter, although he was entirely too experienced at the art of being almost obliterated by fellows of that qualification. So...he had been enlisted to do worse to the so named enemy than had ever been done to him, right? Sounded like fun...

The lines moved quicker than Scott expected and even as he finished his thought, the person in front of him had sprinted forward and skewered one of those heavily stuffed mannikins with the muffled squelch of pierced cloth. Ouch. Someone nudged him hard from behind. Gulping, he positioned his stick and ran, leaping into his sprint at the end, effectively burying his weapon deep in the grass. Someone with gauntlets grabbed him by the shoulder and flung him and his stick back toward the line, with a loudly annoyed grumble. Well, sheesh, he hadn't asked to be enlisted either.

Scott wandered aimlessly for a while until someone finally directed him to the back. He was not releshing an entire day of this...

After what seemed like hours (because it was) the obnoxious bell sounded again and the mixed people that made up the underhorde began to file out of the courtyard. Scott, stunned by the sudden mass movement, looked desperately about for the flashes of color that meant mutants. He was already terribly lost, and nearly collided with Rogue, standing abnormally stock-still against the wave of people. "What are you doing?" Scott gasped out and Rogue described to him the southern sky. Smoke billowed over the horizon and there was the flash of flame.

In short, she finished, taking his arm with a leather gloved hand before he could remember that she was an energy vampire, somewhere, not terribly far away, a settlement was being incinerated off the face of the land.

Forboding clawed at Scott's ribs and he wondered, for the first time, what exactly he was up against. He hadn't expected to survive in any case, which had sort of smothered his curiousity, but really--what sort of army could cause a bonfire that large, large enough to be seen from the Keep? Then his thought shattered as a harshly propelled stick prodded him and Rogue toward the waiting hallway. After being ushered indoors and catching his breath, Scott finally asked, "Where are we supposed to go now?"

Rogue replied distantly, "The bunk house. I'll help you find a place to sleep when we get there."

"No dinner, then, I suppose."

Rogue didn't answer. Scott was puzzled and strangely hurt by her silence, but said nothing more.

There was a series of odd twists and turns which Scott tried vainly to remember, should he have to find his way alone. Finally, at the end of a particularly long hall, Rogue reached forward and swung a door open. Her grip tightened as they manuvered through the room itself, Scott banging his shins on several beds no matter how carefully Rogue directed. Finally, they stopped. "Better take a lower one. Walk straight ahead and keep your head down--don't want to brain yourself on one of the higher ones. Go ahead. I promise they aren't saved." This last was said with a hint of sharpness that made Daer smile, if only slightly.

He hesitated for a moment, then shuffled forward, ducking his head and his entire body and feeling for the hint of a mattress. He found it without too much difficulty and slipped carefully onto it. Rogue swung her entire length of bone and muscle on the highest bunk in the row with a very heavy series of creaks. From the mutters overhead, Scott figured that Jean and Kurt were here as well and wondered just how many bunks were stacked on top of each other and whether the whole thing was bound to come down on him in the middle of the night. "Quite the horde, isn't it?" he said, for the sake of conversation and to keep his mind off of possibly being squished.

Jean laughed, which she apparently did often, "You haven't seen the half of it. They need ten of these to hold us all and if you haven't noticed yet, we only get one meal a day, the frugal rotters. There's only one mess hall and it takes a whole day of rotations to get us all fed, even in such meager quantities. You see, we're just insignificant specks in this vast mace of a . . . whatever."

"And this flippant army of specks needs to realize the danger we're facing," grated Rogue darkly, "That is not an army of rabbits out there. That . . . my friends, is Magneto. Didn't you see the fire in the south? You think mere humans can march right through our battlements like that?"

Scott caught an unusual strain in Rogue's voice as she continued, "They're engulfing the land and burning as they go, burning human settlements as well as war structure, I'd wager. What do they care about humans-- according to them, as you'd know if you spent less time scrabbling in your ambition and more time actually watching, humans are inherently weak to them, even evil. A plague. What do you think they'll do to the mutants chained to those humans, huh? They'll kill us without a thought, given half a chance. As traitors."

Kurt's oiled voice drifted up with, "We're southern, aren't we, Rogue?" There was something cruel in his tone which didn't seem to fit . . . not that Kurt seemed to fit period.

"Yes." Her voice broke off briskly.

"What about Gallant Scott?" asked Jean, half snide, half possibly concerned.

"I'm not southern. I'm from far north, actually. My . . . adoptive parents had some connections with Kelly."

"Well, how banal. I was hoping for another impassioned speech about Magneto's atrocities . . . "

Rogue growled and Jean shut up rather more abruptly than Scott would have expected.

"We're going to die, aren't we?"

Kurt's voice was suddenly very vulnerable.

"You are going to die," something snarled that was not Kurt or Jean or Rogue and certainly not Scott, but familiar all the same. "You're on the front line, you idiots--the Mutant doesn't like competitors."

"Crap," Scott muttered to himself, and turned toward the wall.

But the snarler had already spotted him. "Well, well, well. Who would have thought little Scott would go for the mutant position? Didn't think he had the guts, even if he's got the freak part down." Scott felt something brush his jaw and immediately got to all fours and scooted to the end of the bunk, hoping his expression conveyed the glare he was not able to give.

That tormentor was from Scott's old town, probably a volunteer enlister, and Scott had known him for a long time--long before he'd lost his sight. He was a well built, blond kid with a dull, meatish expression that was belied by his educated barbs and cunning brawling skills--although Scott had occasionally won, when he could see. He was snickering at Scott's reaction and many other voices echoed him. "Do you remember Duncan, then? Apparently all too well."

Scott clenched his fists in warning and said nothing. Duncan laughed again, his weight settling on the other end of Scott's bunk. "Don't want to discuss old times? But really, I'm quite curious as to why you're here at all. Finally ready to die, maybe? Miss your mum and dad that much?"

"Get off," Scott hissed, raising his fists and hoping Duncan would just back off for once.

"Can you make me?"

"No. But get off."

"Ooooh, I love verbal backbone. Wanna spar, you weak-blooded cripple?"

"Get off." This was not Scott--this voice ripped with menace and barely subdued violence. Scott was rather jittered by it and it wasn't even directed at him.

Something thumped to his side and Rogue was there. The grey was tinged with a livid yellow, like Kurt's, and there was something of the ancient werewolf in her breathing growl.

Duncan's laugh sounded a little hollow and no one else took it up this time.

"Get off."

"I'd rather not," Duncan said with a certain primness, having apparently found his nerve, "Besides, you're not helping the cripple by playing attack dog. What's he gonna do when you aren't around?" Scott was trying to fold himself into an inconsequential ball. It wasn't as though he was all so afraid of Duncan, but he couldn't be terribly combative and Rogue like this scared him.

He had some reason to be scared. Rogue let out a roar which sent dust cascading onto his head and Scott guessed she had picked up Duncan by the front of the tunic or something by the sudden relieved heave of the mattress and a whining gasp from that Duncan.

"I said, get off. Two words, not open for discussion. Goodbye." She heaved the boy bodily onto a bunk across the corridor, which cracked. There was the sound of rat-like scrabbling, Duncan probably trying to keep himself from sliding over the other side of the mattress. The scrabbling turned into a long stream of curses, which drew a few very human chuckles.

Duncan finally lost his grip and smashed into the floor and the hall exploded with laughter. Scott heard his old enemy's ascending howl of various obsenities and insults against various anonomous mothers with a certain "uncharitable" satisfaction. He heard Rogue stalk back to her bunk and creak loudly on top of it before Duncan had regained enough composure to venture at all closely to the mutant sector of the hall. Even then, he wouldn't come within Rogue's reach. He merely shuffled at the edge and yelled, "If I ever catch you alone, Scott, without your fellow freaks, there won't be enough of you to scrape off the floor. You have my word on that." He was gone then, probably to soothe his broken dignity.

Jean snapped, "Who does he think he is? Emperor Kelly? I've seen dogs with more sense of authority. And that's all he is. A dog trying to be an alpha wolf. You could take him, Scott, alone. I'm surprised you haven't already, if you've known him long at all."

Scott was finally able to turn toward the wall, "I have. Many times. But he's seldom alone. And he fights better than I do." He didn't feel like reminding Jean yet again that he couldn't hit what he couldn't see.

Rogue broke in, sounding immensely pleased with herself, but under it all, still sympathetic. "I understand. But he and his kind can't attack you if you're not alone. Stay with us."

Scott was unable to help the smile spreading over his face. "Stay with us" was one thing that nobody had ever said to him in his entire experience, even his parents. For the first time in his life, Scott felt he had an ally. Maybe even two.

Lot of good it would do him, but the thought was nice.